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Jun. 2nd, 2005 01:27 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
featherxquillTitle: Confessions Of A Seventh Year
Characters: Hermione Granger, Professor Vector
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Hermione has lesbian fantasies. A little bit stream-of-consciousness-ish.
A/N: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kaz814's Girl Power challenge.
I’m in love with her. Or at least in lust.
There I was, sitting in arithmancy class, bored by the lecture at the same time as being completely enraptured with her fierce intelligence, watching her and realising oh, oh, Merlin, oh fuck, I’m attracted to her. Holy fucking shit, I’m attracted to my arithmancy professor, and only half an hour after exchanging flirtatious glances with Seamus Finnegan, with his carpet hair and his sexy Irish accent. I was attracted to Professor Vector, a woman, a wife, a mother, and almost old enough to be my mother.
I heard not one word of the rest of the lecture.
I can’t get her out of my head. Brown hair to her shoulders, hanging in waves, held back from her face with a clip; glasses, intelligent brown eyes; a delicate, round chin that she turns to the side as she gestures at the board, and light and my eyes fall upon her throat as I wonder what it would be like to kiss it, nibble at the lines, and to make her eyelids flutter and a moan escape those lips, from which eloquent torrents of intelligence so often flow. The amazingly frumpy clothing she wears, and how that makes my eyes fixate on the pale skin revealed where her blouse is undone, and makes me wonder what she is wearing underneath, and how warm that skin is.
And I see us. I’ve stopped after class to ask her a question, and somehow my hand has caught her outstretched wrist, and our eyes meet. It is all there in my eyes, the desire and the question. She says nothing, does not pull away.
Slowly. Slowly I lift my hand and unbutton the cuff at her wrist, then reach for her other hand, and the same again. Just that act, the act of dishevelling her school teacher appearance ever so slightly excites me. By Merlin, I want her. I move forward, drifting close to her, and my lips touch hers. Her eyes are closed, and her lips part slightly as my tongue plays upon them. But she pulls away quickly.
“Someone will see us,” she breathes.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Then come.” And my hand tightens around her wrist, and I pull her with me, out into the deserted corridor and into one of the unused inner classrooms with no windows. “Lock the door,” I whisper.
“It has no lock.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter.” And I am there once again, with her, and my hands are on hers. I lift her arms over her head, pushing her against the door, holding her there with one hand. The other traces the lines of her chin, snakes through the ends of her hair and turns her face to the side. Nibbling that jawbone, now, hand stroking her skin. I hear a whisper from her lips, so I move my kisses down over her throat. I smell fruits in her hair, musk on her skin; and she tastes of something creamy, something bitter, something salty and something sweet. My teeth graze her skin, and my hand moves lower, fumbling at the button of her blouse. I free it, and the next one, and then I am pushing the shirt open on one side, sliding my fingers underneath a black bra strap and pulling it over the soft curve of her shoulder. My lips move over her the lines of her throat, pause to kiss at a brown spot that moves against it, then I am nibbling at her collarbone, and, smiling against her, I nip at her skin hard enough that she gasps. I wonder what her husband will make of that.
I lift my hands then, to watch her face as I let my hand fall lower, and I trace my fingers over the soft, black lace of her bra. I feel her nipple hard against the fabric, and she lets out a tiny moan, arching her head back against the door. Her breasts are not large, but there is a gentle slope to them beneath my hand, and in the next moment I have my fingers inside the cup, teasing the nipple between them. A louder moan, this time.
My lips, then, trailing over her chest and down into that warmth, pulling the fabric aside and the bra down, and I touch the nipple with the tip of my tongue. I feel her shudder under my touch, and I try not to grin. I’ve never done this before, but I know how I like to be touched, so it’s not that hard. I swirl my tongue over the dark bud, then slide my lips over it and suck it into my mouth. I can feel her heart beating hard in her chest.
The hand holding her arms releases them, and she lets them fall as fingers pull at the waistband of her pants. I glance up at her, and she grabs a hold of my shoulders for support as she melts into my touch.
Fingers slide under the waistband, pushing it down, and then under panties that feel soft to my touch. Warmth, then, a gentle tickle of hair against my palm, until she lifts one knee and wraps a leg around me, granting me better access.
I know what this all feels like. It is familiar, but not. Wet, hot, malleable beneath my fingers, I trace it lightly, lifting my head to watch her face, eyes still closed, but words on her lips, inaudible at first, but growing louder.
“Please.”
I oblige. My fingers find her entrance, and I slide one inside of her, using my thumb to press against her clitoris. I curl my finger within her, up to the spot that I have to hit within myself, and when I do, her eyes fly open. They lock with mine.
“Oh, God.” And I’m moving that finger within her, sliding in a second and negotiating a rhythm. She’s hot around me, and I feel her fingers digging into the skin of my shoulders as I rock with her, pushing her against the door, and, every time, curving my fingers up into that spot, pressing my thumb against her clit. Her lips are parted and she breathes heavily. I feel her muscles tightening around my fingers as she fights to pull them deeper within her then they’ll go. Guttural noises are coming from her throat now and she’s throwing her head back, pulling me against her with her leg and arms and shuddering violently around my fingers, eyes rolling back into her head as she comes.
The fantasy shatters in my mind as I climax, legs in the air, both hands buried between my legs, moans reverberating against the silencing charm I have cast around the inside of my bed’s curtains. I collapse, spread eagled, one hand lazily cupping my sex, and close my eyes, a smile on my lips.
Here I am, three days going out with Seamus Finnegan, and I’m in my bead stroking the little wand to fantasies of Professor Vector. Merlin, Hermione, I think, you might be top of every class you’re in, but you don’t know a thing about what you want, do you?
Characters: Hermione Granger, Professor Vector
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Hermione has lesbian fantasies. A little bit stream-of-consciousness-ish.
A/N: Written for
kaz814's Girl Power challenge. I’m in love with her. Or at least in lust.
There I was, sitting in arithmancy class, bored by the lecture at the same time as being completely enraptured with her fierce intelligence, watching her and realising oh, oh, Merlin, oh fuck, I’m attracted to her. Holy fucking shit, I’m attracted to my arithmancy professor, and only half an hour after exchanging flirtatious glances with Seamus Finnegan, with his carpet hair and his sexy Irish accent. I was attracted to Professor Vector, a woman, a wife, a mother, and almost old enough to be my mother.
I heard not one word of the rest of the lecture.
I can’t get her out of my head. Brown hair to her shoulders, hanging in waves, held back from her face with a clip; glasses, intelligent brown eyes; a delicate, round chin that she turns to the side as she gestures at the board, and light and my eyes fall upon her throat as I wonder what it would be like to kiss it, nibble at the lines, and to make her eyelids flutter and a moan escape those lips, from which eloquent torrents of intelligence so often flow. The amazingly frumpy clothing she wears, and how that makes my eyes fixate on the pale skin revealed where her blouse is undone, and makes me wonder what she is wearing underneath, and how warm that skin is.
And I see us. I’ve stopped after class to ask her a question, and somehow my hand has caught her outstretched wrist, and our eyes meet. It is all there in my eyes, the desire and the question. She says nothing, does not pull away.
Slowly. Slowly I lift my hand and unbutton the cuff at her wrist, then reach for her other hand, and the same again. Just that act, the act of dishevelling her school teacher appearance ever so slightly excites me. By Merlin, I want her. I move forward, drifting close to her, and my lips touch hers. Her eyes are closed, and her lips part slightly as my tongue plays upon them. But she pulls away quickly.
“Someone will see us,” she breathes.
“Does it matter?”
“Yes, it does.”
“Then come.” And my hand tightens around her wrist, and I pull her with me, out into the deserted corridor and into one of the unused inner classrooms with no windows. “Lock the door,” I whisper.
“It has no lock.”
“Well, that doesn’t matter.” And I am there once again, with her, and my hands are on hers. I lift her arms over her head, pushing her against the door, holding her there with one hand. The other traces the lines of her chin, snakes through the ends of her hair and turns her face to the side. Nibbling that jawbone, now, hand stroking her skin. I hear a whisper from her lips, so I move my kisses down over her throat. I smell fruits in her hair, musk on her skin; and she tastes of something creamy, something bitter, something salty and something sweet. My teeth graze her skin, and my hand moves lower, fumbling at the button of her blouse. I free it, and the next one, and then I am pushing the shirt open on one side, sliding my fingers underneath a black bra strap and pulling it over the soft curve of her shoulder. My lips move over her the lines of her throat, pause to kiss at a brown spot that moves against it, then I am nibbling at her collarbone, and, smiling against her, I nip at her skin hard enough that she gasps. I wonder what her husband will make of that.
I lift my hands then, to watch her face as I let my hand fall lower, and I trace my fingers over the soft, black lace of her bra. I feel her nipple hard against the fabric, and she lets out a tiny moan, arching her head back against the door. Her breasts are not large, but there is a gentle slope to them beneath my hand, and in the next moment I have my fingers inside the cup, teasing the nipple between them. A louder moan, this time.
My lips, then, trailing over her chest and down into that warmth, pulling the fabric aside and the bra down, and I touch the nipple with the tip of my tongue. I feel her shudder under my touch, and I try not to grin. I’ve never done this before, but I know how I like to be touched, so it’s not that hard. I swirl my tongue over the dark bud, then slide my lips over it and suck it into my mouth. I can feel her heart beating hard in her chest.
The hand holding her arms releases them, and she lets them fall as fingers pull at the waistband of her pants. I glance up at her, and she grabs a hold of my shoulders for support as she melts into my touch.
Fingers slide under the waistband, pushing it down, and then under panties that feel soft to my touch. Warmth, then, a gentle tickle of hair against my palm, until she lifts one knee and wraps a leg around me, granting me better access.
I know what this all feels like. It is familiar, but not. Wet, hot, malleable beneath my fingers, I trace it lightly, lifting my head to watch her face, eyes still closed, but words on her lips, inaudible at first, but growing louder.
“Please.”
I oblige. My fingers find her entrance, and I slide one inside of her, using my thumb to press against her clitoris. I curl my finger within her, up to the spot that I have to hit within myself, and when I do, her eyes fly open. They lock with mine.
“Oh, God.” And I’m moving that finger within her, sliding in a second and negotiating a rhythm. She’s hot around me, and I feel her fingers digging into the skin of my shoulders as I rock with her, pushing her against the door, and, every time, curving my fingers up into that spot, pressing my thumb against her clit. Her lips are parted and she breathes heavily. I feel her muscles tightening around my fingers as she fights to pull them deeper within her then they’ll go. Guttural noises are coming from her throat now and she’s throwing her head back, pulling me against her with her leg and arms and shuddering violently around my fingers, eyes rolling back into her head as she comes.
The fantasy shatters in my mind as I climax, legs in the air, both hands buried between my legs, moans reverberating against the silencing charm I have cast around the inside of my bed’s curtains. I collapse, spread eagled, one hand lazily cupping my sex, and close my eyes, a smile on my lips.
Here I am, three days going out with Seamus Finnegan, and I’m in my bead stroking the little wand to fantasies of Professor Vector. Merlin, Hermione, I think, you might be top of every class you’re in, but you don’t know a thing about what you want, do you?
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Date: 2005-06-02 12:04 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2005-06-02 12:29 pm (UTC)